


Everything is All Right

by afractionof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU as usual, F/M, Little Bit Older!Jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afractionof/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And really, how could it not be? You've got time, lots of it, and you can't wait to spend it with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything is All Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/gifts).



> Love this ship. And. Y'know. Stuff.

Her eyes are blue, her hair is dark, and her skin is pale, something you might make some bitchin’ comparisons to if you were feeling even halfway poetic but you’re not and you won’t.

Ain’t nobody got time for that shit when there’s a pretty lady leading you down the street and for now, she’s just pale.

But, maybe later, you’ll up that adjective to ‘ _ivory’_ or ‘ _porcelain’_ or _‘cream’_.

Either way, you love it—her, everything – all the way down to how her nose wrinkles and her lips purse when she frowns at you for spilling things in the kitchen, and the way she wrings her hands when the oven is just about to beep but there’s still a couple seconds left and she doesn’t want to wait for them. You love that little huff when her temper starts to flare and you know she’s .2 seconds away from lobbing a spoon at you and the fuzzy mustaches that line the top of the mantle out by the T.V.

_—everything_.

You’ve loved everything about her since the day you turned nine and met John Egbert when you did a (rather magnificent) swan dive right off the front end of your bike and landed (flat on your ass) in his front lawn.

Jane had apparently been over at his house, just coming out the door with a pack of books and a pound of flour, when you’d made your entrance into her life.

You remember the flour specifically because, in her hurry to get to you, she’d dropped it and her hands had been dusted in white, fluffy crap as she’d patted your face and arms, and asked you if your head hurt. You can’t remember if it had, only that you’d responded in the way that didn’t get you taken to the hospital and you’d spent the next ten minutes with her flitting around you, asking you all sorts of questions and demanding a scrawny kid with glasses go get a cup of water from the kitchen.  She’d had a smudge just above her eyebrow—from the flour, you suppose, and brushing a lock of hair back from her face—and, to this day, you still want to reach out and touch that little spot that always seems to end up dusted in sugar, or a tiny dab of frosting, or whatever she’s got on her hands at the time.

A dreamy sigh works its way up, into your chest, but you tamp it down without a second thought.  Ill-timed, you remind yourself, ill-timed and totally inappropriate and—

Your internal monologue is cut short when the beautiful lady in question clears her throat to your left.

Right. You were focusing.

“Sup?” You question, spinning to flash her that signature Strider smile.

She rolls her eyes, clearly having none of your shit today, and nods toward the open door directly in front of the two of you. “We’re here,” she tells you crisply. “And you’re wasting good time goggling down the road.”

“I wasn’t goggling,” you correct. “I was… enjoying the view.”

You’re so smooth.

“Dave, there is no view to enjoy, and I hate to even hazard a guess as to what could have possibly held your attention out there,” she sighs, punctuating it with a wave of her hand, “for so long, especially with such a slack look on your face.”

“Well, Jane, you’re the sleuth-master, aren’t you? You tell me. What could have _possibly_ garnered the gaze of Dave Strider? Perhaps a pretty lady? A cute pooch? A hamburger held in the thick, meaty fingers of the accountant in the second story window down at Anderson’s?”

She glances up at you, eyebrow arching even further as her lips twitch and you can tell she’s swaying on that line between exasperation and finding you somewhat endearing.

Thankfully, endearing wins out and she just sighs, shaking her head at you once again. “That’s ‘Miss Crocker’, to you.”

“Oh, I love it when you take that tone with me, _Miss Crocker_.”

The swat she lands on the back of your head was well worth it and you laugh as she ushers you inside the building.

“Hush, you!”

The sweet scent of candies and chocolates hangs thick in the air, quickly drowning out the chilled winter-y bite the outside held, and you let out that dreamy sigh you’d been saving. It might not have been as heavy, or as wistful, or as pointedly directed at the goddess making her way passed you but god, you _love_ chocolate.

“Don’t start drooling.”

Your lips quirk up into another lazy smile as you follow her down one of the short isles toward the back of the store. “I’ll do my best,” you tell her. “Pinkie promise.”

“See that you do.”

She stops near the baking chocolate and kneels down, lifting bricks of it to give them a once over before setting them aside.

You love this part, and it makes up at least a quarter of your reasoning for following after her like a lost puppy every time she conveniently mentions a trip to the candy shop.

She knows.

You don’t know how, or why, but she _knows_.

Maybe she’s got some secret Crocker family touch that just absorbs the qualities in the ingredients, swiftly and silently culling out the weak until she finds the perfect blend of cocoa and sugar to melt down and turn into the creation of the week. You’ve never asked – sacred family code and all – but you’re pretty sure her only response would be that one, cheeky little smile she saves for the moments when she knows something that you don’t know.

It kills you, pains you to not know, but you look forward to it in a way that used to leave you with hot ears and burning cheeks.

Now, you don’t have that problem. You have a problem with sighs and smiles, and that ‘soft, dopey look’ that Egbert seems to think sums up your relationship with her perfectly instead. You can’t help it though. You just like to watch her; her pinched lips and small hands, the little smile she gives to people that pass by, how she _finally_ stands and tucks the perfect block to her chest like it’s made of gold.

She’s perfect.

You don’t even mean that in the direct definition kind of way, either. Webster couldn’t possibly handle everything she’s got, everything she does, all the laughter and pointed frowning, the teasing and the pranks, the cakes, the sweets, the flour she’s tossed at you and all the cooking lessons, and the mountains more you couldn’t even begin to describe in one, small entry in 6pt font. One word couldn’t contain that, couldn’t even come close to being on par with everything she is.

So, when you say perfect, you really mean something completely different but exactly the same.

You mean soft. You mean sweet. You mean intelligent and kind. You mean funny and mischievous, adorable and witty. You mean her smiles and her laughter, her bad days and her good. You mean the way she’s giving you that questioning but amused look, that one, perfect block of chocolate held in her arms as he waits for you.

You mean how she’s even bothering to wait for you.

You mean how she cares, how she sets her hand on your arm and steps close enough to reach up and tap your shades with one, blue fingernail.

“Dave? Are you all right?”

Are you all right – what kind of a question is that, you wonder.

“Perfect.” You’re perfect. “Fit as a fiddle.”

“You seem very far away.”

“Nope. I’m right here.” You shrug and reach out, lightly bumping her shoulder with your fist. “In the flesh, the one and only Dave Strider, at your service.”

She rolls her eyes again, but there’s that smile. “You’re impossible, just like your brother.”

“What can I say, it runs in the family.”

“Lucky me,” she mutters, shaking her head as she turns, heading back down the aisle.

You stand there for a moment, watching her walk, and you have to bite back a laugh when she pauses, barely ten feet away, and glances back.

“Are you coming? We don’t have all day, you know.”

You know.

Just like you know that she’s teasing, even if she does try to pin you with that frown that, years ago, would have sent you running the other direction. Just like you know that you’re not that kid anymore, that you’ve waited a long time to be able to do more than just bump her shoulder or sneak the occasional hug every now and then.

Just like you know that you can wait a little longer.

“Yeah, yeah,” you sigh, dragging your feet across the floor as you shuffle toward her. “So _demanding_.”

“You’re the one that wanted to come along.”

You feel your lips twitch and, this time, you don’t bite it back and just smile.

Bro always tried to tell you that there was a difference – that there was a smile for everything and everyone. There was one for pushing it all aside, for being laughed at, for being unimpressed but playing along, for movies and for friends, for everything. But, the key to smiling was to find someone that could see through all the subtle differences, someone that could read you like a book and just as silently.

You’ve known for a while that she isn’t fooled by any of that: a grin, a flashy smile or two. She can see through it all, she can see the softness that Egbert’s always talking about and you should probably get a handle on that but, today, you think you’ll let it slide.

And today, you think you’ll just loop your arm in hers, take that step around her, and tug her toward the counter.

You’ve got time. As long as it’s with her, you don’t mind.

“Well, c’mon. Are we gonna do this or what?”

“Dave, what—”

You nudge her side with your elbow, letting out an exasperated sigh. “ _Miss Crocker_ , I thought you said we didn’t have all day? Who’s the one goggling now?”

You know you’ve won when she huffs and settles her arm around yours. That’s not the end of it, not with Jane. You can hear her swallowing back whatever question she was about to ask you and you know they’ll come up again but you’re okay with that.

You’re almost looking forward to it.

“You’re quite the brat,” she tells you as you lead her back toward the front of the shop and you laugh when she sticks her tongue out at you.

“Only for you,” you murmur.   _Only for you._


End file.
